The Last of the Muses
by Morgul-squirrel
Summary: Time was of the essence. She had too much and he had too little, and all theirs together wouldn't be enough.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Ssssssoooooooooo this is awkward. It appears to be a Weeping Angel/human romance- I really should be ashamed of myself delving into a subject that I have very little personal experience with. -_- Still this idea has been floating around my head for so long it was getting annoying. But hopefully it'll be alright? Provided my own ideas don't become sentient and try to eat me or something.**

 **I really wanted this first chapter to be longer, to introduce both main characters at once, but getting it to 'flow' didn't work. So hopefully this will be okay and it'll all work out. I hate when I write spaghetti stories.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own.**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

Life was a strange thing, weaving through times of strife and joy, winding across valleys of boredom with the sluggish pace of a drying river, and gambling up tiny hills of fun before flattening into its normal monotonous cadence.

Thalia wasn't old by Weeping Angel standards, not even close, and yet eight hundred and seventy two years of loitering about a human city on one of the many versions of Earth that existed in the universe, had become depressingly boring. At some point the hotel, the farm, the constant food, the same gossiping sisters, aunts, and more distant female relations she'd known from birth, the humans and their petty troubles, grew stagnant and repetitious.

There was no cause or necessity when life was so easy. Time travel had no charm, and listlessness made the Weeping Angel irritable and bold.

In a fit of utter boredom, Thalia had seen to the restoration of a fallen chandelier, polishing it, fixing the broken crystals, and ordering some idle fledglings to help re-hang it.

It was a project that was over far too quickly, and she regretted having asked for the help of the irritated younger angels. If she'd done it by herself, it could have fallen, broken again, and given her more to do, but it seemed wrong that such an exquisite thing -even something as useless as a chandelier in a hotel full of predators that preferred the dark- should be forgotten and soiled.

Hanging from the vaulted ceiling, surrounded by the fading murals of cherubs and sunbathed clouds, with its crystals glinting in the wan light the chandelier did indeed seem grand, even if it was but a shade of its former beauty. Its silver elegance gladdened her and for several months she basked in the glow of her accomplishment.

Over time the sight of the lovely chandelier ignited Thalia's desire to see more of beauty rather than stifling it, and the Weeping Angel soon turned her grey eyes to the world outside her hotel.

Thalia began to frequent the outside world more, hunting not for sustenance, but for beauty, though she happily sent any human she caught to the hotel where her entire clan could make use of all the potential time energy the lowly creatures provided.

Always she had been an efficient huntress, even by standards of her own kind, a silent agent of death with a gift, but beauty, substantial amounts of it eluded her wiles.

At one point sunrises, sunsets, shooting stars, and a myriad of other sites pleased her. Thalia had been youthful then, and the memory of when such things were beautiful teased her with a sense of melancholy and filled her with even greater confusion. Shooting stars didn't make her smile anymore, and she couldn't remember why they ever had. What had been the attraction? She didn't know. The novelty perhaps, but the answer didn't seem to feel right. It seemed to the Lonely Assassin that she was missing something, but she had no idea what she had lost.

Thalia sought beauty all the more fervently, determined she find a source of it to gaze upon indefinitely, until the maddening need for it was quenched for good, but no such fortune smiled upon her, and as the decades progressed, her hunts became lengthier and lengthier, until she was only returning to the hotel to feed before slipping out again, eager to continue her search.

For all her time spent hunting, skill, and patience it seemed to Thalia, that her search was a fruitless one. To the proud Weeping Angel who'd once been stoic, undaunted, and carefree that was truly frightening.

Materialism was a vice that humans indulged in. One that Weeping Angels, generally did not bother to explore: they had no need of cars, big houses, comfy chairs, money, or pretty trinkets, and yet her excursions from the earth the Weeping Angels had conquered to one they had not, often resulted in her bringing back beautiful items.

It was an odd habit to be sure, one that got her strange looks from her peers over the years, but not so strange that they thought there was something horribly wrong with her.

For in the early days it had been but a way for her to pass the time: looking at paintings she'd hung up on the fading walls, or reflecting on the whimsical or symmetrical patterns on various vases and pots strewn about for added décor. The beautiful things detracted from the constant repetitiveness of the hotels fading halls.

The wonderful artefacts she brought back, eventually grew stagnant, and the boredom, frustration, and melancholy were quick to return with an ever greater vengeance than before. With it her need grew into something she thought monstrous and desperately she sought to purge herself of it. The Weeping Angel confined herself to the hotel, adverting her gaze from the treasures she'd graced her home with, but her hunger did not fade. It held her fast and refused to her let go.

Trammelled and desperate for freedom and an end to her madness she went forth once more to hunt, not for art but the artists themselves, hoping that in keeping the creators close, she would at last find solace. They would make for her this beauty, and she would learn what it was that influenced them, and then at last she would find the key to her release.

But sending artists back in time to the hotel availed Thalia not.

In the early days of their imprisonment, their fingers moved across canvas and string… but each one sooner or later grew slower, their works of art taking longer to materialize, each one in lesser quality than the last. She kept herself distant from them neither wishing to impede upon them nor wishing her sisters to think that she was pathetically obsessed.

Every artist she'd sent back, sooner or later, waned, their art withered and one by one she abandoned them utterly, as they were no longer 'her artists' but another source of food for her entire clan.

Begrudgingly Thalia realized, after so many failed experiments with her imprisoned artists, that the only way to acquire the splendour that she so desperately yearned for was to allow them their freedom. She forsook hunting them and the Weeping Angel watched them from afar, hating them and hating herself. She could not own them and they could not provide her what she wanted when encaged.

It was that bitter realization, cold and horrible, that made the Weeping Angel give up hope. She was weak, in a way that she could not identify -let alone cure- and it left her wondering how far she still had left to fall, and how long it would take another seraph jealous of her position in the clan's hierarchy to make note of her weakness and use it against her.

Never in all her life had the Lonely Assassin felt so helpless-

It was the feeling of an approaching fledgling that yanked Thalia's mind back to present. Blindly she'd been staring in the direction of a painting she'd hung some fifteen years earlier.

Seeing it now made the Angel restless. It was still beautiful but the charm it once held had long vanished. It no longer excited her and she no longer cared.

With a frown Thalia covered her eyes, and turned toward the younger Weeping Angel.

"Angel Thalia," the fledgling demurred bowing low. Whatever cynical worry and fear surrounding her perceived weakness had begun to take root, withered as the show of respect. And Thalia's frown dissipated, replaced by something nearly amiable.

"Yes Angel Cathanna?"

The fledgling's short wings rustled. "The Matriarch wishes for your immediate presence."

Paranoia returned; fears of her unquenchable need for beauty and her inability to cure it clamored in her mind. Why was she being summoned? Did the Matriarch know how weak she was? Did all her sisters? Hastily she turned away from the dark places such thoughts led, and in a voice calm and cool, belaying nothing of her inner turmoil, she said: "Lead me to her then."

Every seraph they passed on their way to the restaurant where the Matriarch and her inner circle of seraphs gathered for meetings was suddenly a threat. She imagined every one of them extending their claws waiting for the moment to strike.

It had been her strength and superiority that had made her dangerous not so long ago. She wasn't the oldest, strongest, or most experienced Weeping Angel in the clan, but she was high up enough to have little fear of many attacks, but her affinity for beautiful things had left gaping holes in her armour, but her fear of their exploitation only widened them further.

The Lonely Assassin wondered if it was her reputation or her feigned calmness that kept the others at bay, and silently she hoped for both- that her ailment might remain secret yet.

The fledging pushed open the door into the old fading dining room.

"I've brought Angel Thalia."

Both Angels bowed low before their superior.

"Thank you, Angel Cathanna," the Matriarch's voice carried from a nearby table.

The fledging's fluffed with poorly concealed pride as she swept from the room, shutting the door before her.

Thalia frowned behind her hands dreading the inevitable; wondering if her Matriarch knew of her illness, and if that was indeed the reason for the summons.

Cool and calm, the Matriarch's voice rose again; "Angel Thalia, there is matter of some importance that we need to discuss."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: This was going to be part of the first chapter, but I felt like keeping it together would have made it long winded. And this way you get to meet one major character per chapter, until the first arc is concluded.**

 _ **This story is set in the 1930s because of reasons-blame the dude you're going to meet in the next chapter. That twerp is half the reason I bothered to even start writing this fiasco of a fanfic.**_

 **Disclaimer: Weeping Angels own everything. I don't own diddlysquat.**

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 **Chapter Two**

Whitewall tires rolled to a smooth stop at the foot of a hotel lobby, but behind the wheel Carter Green sat stiff, sweating, and staring.

The leather wheel was slick under his clenched fingers and the car's engine hummed unheeded.

The indigo Delage looked every bit as out of place in the otherwise empty lot as he felt sitting before the old rundown entrance of what at one point surely would have been grand hotel.

Something ominous and predatory hung over the building, and in a tiny blue car he sat before it, hardly a morsel worth considering, and yet… here he was, before the doors of a place he had been taught from birth to avoid; a place that a beautiful feminine voice had summoned him to over the phone a week before.

Into that horror -from which few ever returned- he was supposed to walk, hope trammelled to a pittance of promises and assurances from a creature that wouldn't hesitate to devour him given half a chance. He knew what that voice had truly belonged to, what it was that had spoken to him over the phone: an angel of stone, capable of moving when no one was watching.

This was their domain….

Where were they?

No stone seraphs were visible. But this place by all accounts indeed looked to be one of their prisons-their farms, where they did god only knew what to society's undesirables and the unfortunately bartered or captured. And in his still running car he waited, unsure of his next move. Was he supposed to enter, or was he supposed to wait? The Stone Angel on the phone hadn't given any instruction beyond, what time and what place he was expected to show up. Was this the moment when one of them would appear out of nowhere and make him disappear? Where would he go after that?

Heart hammering, and breath growing ragged he rested his head against the steering wheel. It vibrated against his head, in time with his trembling hands, as he waited for his stammering heart to still.

Eyes closed he prayed. He'd never been terribly religious, but a little divine intervention wouldn't hurt. Maybe if God saw him through this he'd go back to church… and start putting donations in the charity basket… and some charity work. There were tens of thousands of people displaced by the Depression in need of money and food. Carter could -no- he would help them, if he could just make it out alive.

 _'Please God, let me go home. Let me see my wife and daughters again. Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name-'_

"Mister Green?"

Carter's heart leapt into his throat as his head jerked upward. Bug-eyed with panic he stared at the angel statue stand on the top most step into the lobby.

" _Don't blink! Don't blink!"_

Death disguised as temptation. The Seraph was beautiful- every single one he'd ever seen had been, and the one standing a short flight of stairs away was no exception. At least she was until the claws and fangs came out, and then he'd be a dead man.

Her expression was blank, nonthreatening, arms held out as if beckoning, and for some reason that was more terrifying than fangs, claws, and a silent furious snarl.

 _'Monsters with pretty faces!'_

Every hair on his neck was standing on end, and every instinct was screaming to run, to move, but he couldn't. His hands were locked in a trembling strangle hold on his steering wheel, and he just sat, rigid and panting waiting for his itching eyes to spasm shut.

"Mister Green…." The Stone Angel's voice, distantly familiar and unplaceable in his blind panic trailed off.

Carter's eyes twitched, blinking at long last, and nauseated he opened them, horrified by what he expected to find.

She hadn't moved, standing every bit as serenely as before, and slowly through the rush of blood in his ears, the panicked voice in his mind screaming 'flee!' another voice whispered. _'They're not going to kill you. You were summoned: that means they merely wish to speak. And you prayed.'_

"They're ready for you," the Seraph said at last.

"I-I-Right…"Feeble and breathless Carter's voice faltered. His cramping sore hands, he at last unclenched from the wheel, and stiffly he fumbled for his keys.

"Right…."

 _'Right! Right! Shit-! You're not supposed to stare! You dolt! It's rude! They summoned you! You're a guest! It courtesy! You're probably offending her, and you're lucky she hasn't clawed your eyes out or something- holy shit-God save me! Don't Look!'_

Trembling he bent over in his seat. Under the passenger chair there was a briefcase, and he chewed the inside of his cheek, as he took a moment to try to collect himself. His entire life, everything he need to buy his safety and his freedom resided inside that precious leather- all those documents.

Slowly, and hesitantly he reached for it. Cool and smooth in his hands, it grounded him to reality, and he went over everything he knew about the monsters he would soon be treating with, what the Angel on the phone had told him, what he would demand of them and the golden idol he'd offer up to have those demands met.

Never again would he live in fear of them, never would his children know of their predation, never would they share in the panic that coursed like hot tallow in his veins until his very heart felt as if it were aflame.

He would spare them that. This. This battled-getting up the steps, and braving the horrors he was sure to witness his fellow man put through- would be the only one.

Sucking in air through his nose and out through his mouth, he unsteadily rose. Heart still fluttering painfully fast in his chest, he faced the seraph, biting his cheek so hard he tasted blood, and wilfully, knowingly, adverted his gaze.

Shaking and wondering if he might fall over, he opened the door: the indigo paint winking azure under the midmorning sun. How dazzlingly pretty it was all the sudden. The car had always been his other daughter, and carefully he slid from the seat, and planted his shiny shoes on the blacktop.

Only when the door was shut, did the Seraph move. She was a grey blurry mass on the extreme edge of Carter's vision, and swiftly he looked away.

"Walk before me. Do not turn around. You not fear as long you stay with me. Understand?"

Throat too dry to speak, Carter nodded, fingers twisting around the handle of his briefcase.

"I will guide you."

The man shivered at the idea of having that thing breathing down his neck the entire time, but he couldn't walk behind her without trapping her stone.

Inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, he took measured careful breath, and slowly made his shaky way up the steps toward the very monster he should have been running from.

Eyes fixed to pale stone under his feet, Carter was very aware of how painfully his heart beat.

* * *

The lobby's cool air chilled sweat on Carter's brow and he stood shivering as he surveyed his surroundings. It was dim, and smelled faintly of dust, but past the motes of glittering dust and lint dancing in the pale light of the windows there was opulence. Tarnished and withered by age, but no less apparent. Back when the hotel could have still been honestly called a hotel it would have been a ritzy place.

Stairs and the gaping entrances of diverging hallways greeted him immediately. Silence thick as cotton buzzed in Carter's ears as he stood frowning at the terrible intersection before him, waiting with dread for direction. He was positive he did not want to go up.

A ding, not unlike the chime of an elevator sliced the silence, and he looked for the source of the noise.

In the shadow of the staircase, passed the old front desk, lost in the shade of the second floor balcony the door of an elevator slid open. Carter blanched, horrified by the empty carriage and terrified by what it might portend.

"That is not for you."

The Living Statue's voice made him jump, and he made to turn only to feel a cold hand fall upon his shoulder. Swallowing against the fluttering pulse in his throat, the man fell rigid and still under the unyielding grip.

"What-what is it for-?" Wide eyed and terrified he stared at the elevator, positive that he did not want his question answered.

"It's for another guest; one who's tenure here will be far longer than yours."

The hand slid from his shoulder, and surreptitiously Carter checked for any unfelt injury. No blood, no pain, nothing met his groping fingers.

"Go down the hall on your right, and trouble yourself no more over affairs that are not your own."

Nodding quietly, and absolutely petrified over the fate of the so called 'guest,' Carter did as instructed. He wouldn't wind up trapped in this.

 _'That won't be my fate. God help me please. I won't get stuck here. I won't….'_

Over and over he repeated the words in his head. He had been summoned for a private audience with the Matriarch of a clan of Angel Statues in Hartford. Admittedly he had only the vaguest idea of why they had summoned him, why the Angel haunting his steps had called him over the phone a week before, but he had learned enough from whispers and rumours to know ignoring such a call was a very bad idea.

His shoes clicked over polished creamy stone, as he walked, but he heard nothing of the seraph trailing him.

Dark wooden doors passed, and he tried not to look at them. He'd stories that they put the names of their victims on those doors, but he didn't want them confirmed. What he was here to do…he might not be able to if he learned the truth.

Carter's family was everything. Mildred his beautiful dark haired wife and their three gorgeous daughters, Dorothy, Elizabeth, and Suzanne made up his world. But what he had to do to save them and himself from the nightmarish predation of the monsters that ruled their world, he was not looking forward to.

His fingers twisted around the handle of his briefcase. Could he do it in the end? How could he not?

A wave of emotion, unnameable, and barely containable crashed down, and under it Carter squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth, willing it to pass. He would do what was needed to save his family. Of course he would. No one in world, not even a young man…who could have been the son he'd never had could come between him and the ones he loved.

"Mister Green we're here."

Immediately Carter froze. A pair of closed dark double doors stood on his left.

"Listen closely to what I'm about to tell you. You must do exactly as I say in the manner I tell you to do it. Is that clear?"

Carter nodded. "Yes."

"You will keep your gaze adverted or your eyes covered throughout the proceedings, unless expressly informed otherwise. If you truly need your sight ask before opening your eyes or lifting your gaze. I will present you to them. You will bow. You will address your betters by their titles. When the Matriarch invites you to, you may sit in a chair. Is that perfectly clear?"

"Yes. Yes. I understand."

"When you have been dismissed, you will bow again, and thank them for their time. Surely I don't need to stress what an honour this is for you: being granted an audience with our Mother Superior. I will return to escort you back to your vehicle."

Cold, calculating, and uncaring the Stone Seraph that had followed him spoke with all the professionalism of a clerk. There was no note of reassurance in her tone, nor any hint of impending doom. He was without a compass, and desperately he wanted to hear a heartfelt 'good luck.' Instead she told him cover his face.

The man sense her move passed him, and his ears definitely heard the door the open. Uncertainly he swallowed, flinching as a hand wrapped about his forearm, and blindly he hesitantly shuffled beside his nameless guide as she led him into the unknown.

The Angel Statue halted, and Carter jerked to a sloppy standstill next to her, unsure of who or what he was facing. He could see nothing, and worse he could hear nothing. The hand slipped from his arm, and blood pounded heavily in his ears as panic surged through his veins. Only the second it was gone, did Cater realize how comforting that slight touch had been. Without it he was completely devoid of any spatial awareness. Only the hard floor under his feet could be felt, to ease the terrible chasm of darkness and silence he had just steeped into.

"Most High, I bring you Mister Carter Green."

' _Do I bow now, or wait? Oh shit, what was it she said?'_ He worried his cheek between his teeth, as oppressive silence rang in his ears. _'Is it wrong to seem overly cordial? Is it okay if I do it now? What happens if I bow too soon?'_

Biting down on useless panic, Carter bowed low, heart labouring as his chest constricted. Hesitantly he rose, flushed and fearful, hating the horrid silence that rang in his ears.

"Mister Green, you have the honour of standing before Angel Thalia, and our Matriarch Angel Zelmira."

Carter flinched as the door suddenly shut behind him- the only sound to announce his guide's departure. Alone and terribly afraid he stood, blind and at the mercy of monsters.

Finally a voice in the dark spoke.

"Come forward."

Swallowing dryly Carter obeyed.

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 **There will be some 1930s slang in this fic. Translations will go here.**


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